If there's one person it's you
by GraceEliz
Summary: Bruce has a pressing situation, but first of all he has to get Harvey his meds. "Jeez, Harv, this – you got worse since I last came huh," bemoaned Bruce as he hugged Harvey's limp body close. Ragged pants and gasps filled the damp night air. Harvey patted Bruce's thigh weakly in thanks. "Almo' fell th' time," he croaked summoning a limp smile. "Y' go' my meds?"


"Harvey!" Bruce hissed at his best friend through the crack of the window, glancing furtively up into the starred night sky. "Harv, wake up, I have a situation." His friend groaned a little, shuffling deeper into his cocoon of blankets. Nothing else for it, then, sighed Bruce, but to go in. He hated having to intrude on Harvey's private spaces without invite – it wasn't like the Narrows allowed many people the privacy Harvey protected so vehemently.

Bruce carefully pressed himself through the tiny window. These little flats were at most three rooms, and Harvey's was a single room with a shared toilet down the corridor that only worked four days in a week. Cholera was a risk that still existed here, much to Bruce's despair and morbid amazement. Cholera, and all the other diseases found in city slums. Diphtheria. Typhoid. Measles, rubella, deficiency diseases like rickets and scurvy. The packet of medicine in his chest pocket felt far too light.

Harvey barely awoke as Bruce whispered his name again. The hard floor was worn smooth with age, but it felt like they were forever plucking splinters out of each other's palms and feet and knees and elbows. If only the dragons would come back – they'd take down the corrupted government and their healing breath could cure all the desperate poor, especially the children. Pushing himself to his knees, Bruce repeated Harvey's name louder. They couldn't wake the neighbours; nobody could know that the young Crowned Prince was sneaking into the slum of all slums to visit the disowned son of the Narrows' cruelest man.

"Br's? Th' you?"

Bruce ducked his head in a wince at the hoarse weakness of his friend's voice. He pressed his hand to the packet in his shirt. "Yeah," he croaked back, "I got you more meds."

"Heh," wheezed Harvey, "Y' stole 'em? Crown Prin' o' Gotham stealin' meds f'r a slum."

Bruce shook his head. "Paid cash." He stood and shuffled to the pallet Harvey called a bed. He'd stolen that mattress, remembered Bruce, dragged it to Harvey and told him to take it without asking questions. Harvey took the mattress. A bout of hacking coughs spurred him the last few steps to catch his friend before the coughing toppled him off the low bed. Blood-speckled blankets knotted about his legs and chest, the marked pillow cast on the boards before Bruce had even entered.

"Jeez, Harv, this – you got worse since I last came huh," bemoaned Bruce as he hugged Harvey's limp body close. Ragged pants and gasps filled the damp night air. Harvey patted Bruce's thigh weakly in thanks.

"Almo' fell th' time," he croaked summoning a limp smile. "Y' go' my meds?"

"Here, lie down so I can get them out. They're in my pocket."

Harvey rolled his head to follow Bruce's movements. There was a blanket rolled uncomfortably under his lower back, something scratchy scrunched under his right leg, and a slow pulse of pain down his spine. His chest throbbed, his eyes throbbed, his throat raw with hacking. He'd stopped feeling his lungs. There was a clinic, four streets away, but with this winter's outbreak of tuberculosis every doctor and quack and medic and wise woman in the city was facing down queues of whole blocks, and seeing all those kids and their mothers waiting for a sliver of hope twisted Harvey's chest something fierce. He didn't like to rely on Bruce, public figure as he was, but his best friend (only friend) refused to pass on what he considered a responsibility.

The packet of medicine felt too small, too insignificant to be full of life-saving drugs. Bruce wished he could get more of the stuff, bring it for the little ones who hacked and coughed. He'd studied up on tuberculosis, knew that his best bet was probably to establish a sanatorium somewhere away from the smog. Maybe even an orphanage, a little way into the countryside, get the smog out of their lungs. More than anything he wished he could take Harvey away with him. He popped four pills into his palm, and fished the water bottle out of his satchel. It had been discarded on the floor without second thought, and he felt a little bad about that considering the contents, but Harvey came first.

"Seems strange that TB kills but it only takes six months of antibiotics to cure. And you know in England this is all on the NHS," mused Bruce as he propped Harvey on his chest, twisted in strange ways to stop Harvey's limps muscles sliding him straight back into the nest. He was met with a bleary glare. Harvey swallowed the tablets, grimacing at the rough feel of them against the red-raw of his throat. He savoured the water, resisting what Bruce knew was the urge to guzzle until nothing remained to be taken from him. The display of trust yanked at Bruce's heartstrings like nothing ever had. When Harvey settled against him, limp hair tucked into Bruce's neck, tears fogged his eyes and he ducked his lips to Harvey's crown. They sat for half an hour or so watching the grey dawn through the small broken window.

Soft broken humming floated in the room. Harvey's pale thin hand was silhouetted against the yellowing sky, the last stars twinkling behind him. He moved his fingers, just feeling the cold air against them and watching them shiver. Bruce was a hard wall of strength behind him, a best friend, brother. It hit him suddenly that his hands would no longer wield the twin daggers he cherished (twin blades, twisted pommel, tucked under him in the mess of ragged bedding) in defense of his loved ones. Well, one. He only had Bruce left now.

Bruce tucked his cheek against Harvey's crown, watching his friends weak hand grasp at far-off stars fading into morning. The grey filthy room gradually brightened, illuminating the poverty Harvey survived in.

"I can' 'member last time I had clean water."

"Really?" Bruce frowned down, "Like, water to wash in?"

Harvey nodded. "Was last time I saw Alf, think. Lon' time."

Horror wove it's gritty path through Bruce's lungs. That had to be – three months. It was a miracle Harvey didn't smell worse, frankly. An idea struck between his eyes, and he cast his sharp gaze at Harvey. "Harv. How did you wash."

Harvey pressed his lips together.

"Please."

"Waited for rain. An' ol' Tim, likes me. Brought water."

Old Tim, he'd met. Old Tim was thirty-five or so. Bruce felt that said far too much about the life expectancy here. He held tighter to his best friend. At some point he had to address what he had ensconced in his satchel, but it could wait a little longer. Just until Harvey was warm again.

_The prompt for this piece was "dragons" and uh yeah, no dragons. The next chapter will definitely have dragons, for plot purposes, but it will also likely have more of Harvey being sick and Bruce being soft. That's what I live for. _


End file.
